


Polymer Gut

by RiaTheDreamer



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Idiots in Love, Injury, M/M, Red Team Week, Temple of Procreation, but nothing gets NSFW
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-06
Updated: 2017-06-06
Packaged: 2018-11-09 21:12:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,025
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11112981
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RiaTheDreamer/pseuds/RiaTheDreamer
Summary: Six times Simmons was sure he was about to die.





	Polymer Gut

The metal is cold against his back. His torso is bare and so are his legs; he is stripped down to his underpants which someone (most likely Donut) is probably going to remove during the surgery itself. Maybe. Simmons is not aware of all the details yet but he has the feeling they are probably going to carve out a lot of stuff.

He tries not to look at the metal tools that are lying ready on the tray next to his head. He does not want to think of bacteria and lack of medical education and how overall crazy this is.

But of course _crazy_ has been a natural part of living in Blood Gulch for a long time now.

Simmons blinks and keeps his stare focused on metal ceiling above him. There’s a bit of cobweb in the corner. It makes him want to jump off the table and read out loud his mental list that contains all the reasons why this surgery is extremely risky.

Their base is unsanitary. Sarge is by no way a real surgeon. This surgery is unnecessary in the first place.

So Simmons is probably going to die on the table.

Well.

That kinda sucks.

He licks his lip he thinks about it. He can hear Sarge mumbling to himself but Simmons does his best to ignore it; the less he knows about the details of this procedure the better. Donut is shuffling around on the right side of Simmons’ head, probably preparing the tools they are going to use to cut Simmons open and carve out his organs and fill him with gears instead.

It is a stupid decision. Simmons has figured he would die at some point in the war anyway. He knows he’s not the best soldier and he’s been made aware of that fact too many times.

Red catches his eyes and Simmons makes the mistake of turning his head to his right, resting his chin against the cool metal. While red is the color that fills the most, Simmons is focused on the parts that are still orange. It takes him some seconds to realize that is Grif. Donut is hovering above the table, pulling off broken pieces of armor.

Simmons turns his head again since the ceiling is a much calmer view. The grey color helps his heart calm down to a somewhat steady pace, and his mind repeats the fact again and again that Sarge has claimed he is a competent surgeon and that questioning authority has never brought anything good to Simmons before.

He grips the edges of the table to keep himself still, inhales deeply, and hopes that Grif will be grateful for this.

No matter how this turns out.

* * *

Simmons has figured his death would be brought to him by a bullet. But there has always been a hope that it would happen battlefield, in the middle of a heroic mission or something. That he would get a Purple Heart or maybe even a Medal of Honor, just something that can be sent to his father. Something he could hang up on the wall, on that spot that has been empty ever since the day he called Simmons a failure and tore down the picture frame.

And while Simmons has considered whether his teammates would become the death of him, literally, it is pretty clear the chances of teamkilling are higher on Blue Team.

But now he is going to die, and it’s Grif’s fault, and Grif is going to die with him too.

Death by mutiny (however righteous it might be) is not really the way he wants to go out. Not the way he expected, either.  His father is probably expecting it; just waiting for Simmons to screw up and die so he can be proven right. Simmons hopes they will just send him some sort of medal without mentioning any details.

Simmons is not really fond of death, especially not the painful ones, but he has dealt with the thought before. Their life in Blood Gulch had turned incredibly crazy incredibly fast, and the fact that he has survived a Freelancer’s attack, a maniac AI, even an extremely risky cyborg surgery, is amazing.

But at least dying in the attempt of saving your teammate was much more cool than dying by the fact that your fellow Reds are douchebags and Grif is an idiot. Simmons needs better friends.

So they are about to die because of a stupid situation, and Simmons should probably have seen that coming but at least they go together.

“Grif, this looks like it's it. Listen, there's something I always wanted to tell you.”

“I have something I wanna say to you too, buddy.”

“You first.”

“It was me that stole your identity and ran up all those credit card charges at the pawn shops and peep shows. Sorry. Whew! I feel so much better now that I got that off my chest! So what do you wanna say to me?”

“I seem to have forgotten. Hey asshole, can we hurry this up?”

So Grif does not tell him he is grateful that Simmons gave up parts of himself. Simmons does not tell him he has never regretted that choice.

So, yeah, somebody shoot Simmons already.

* * *

Donut is rotting inside his stupid pink armor in the middle of the canyon and sparks has stopped emerging from Lopez’ body hours ago.

Simmons is cowering in the corner of the base and does his best to stop shaking. The intruders have left him alone since they made him call for medical assistance but the Meta turns his head to growl at him whenever he walks by and Wash makes sure to wave his weapon to ensure the prisoner remains fearful.

And it works.

Simmons gulps, claps his hands together, and wonders how long they will let him live. It’s better than wondering _why_ they let him live. That just brings up dark images and a gnawing worry in his stomach. Simmons has no more information to give them.

His teammates left and Simmons does not know what they are doing right now. He does not even know if they’re okay or if they’re still alive, and whenever Sarge is a part of a mission the chance of death by explosion increases by 45 percent, if not more.

But it all serves as a poor comfort because at least they are not here.

Simmons makes the mistake of closing his eyes and imagines Sarge falling over with a bullet hole in his visor, Grif’s body lying broken on the ground…

The scenarios causes Simmons breathing to hiccup but he manages to calm down just slightly, just enough not to start a complete panic attack because he doubts his captors have the patience to deal with that.

Simmons sits in the corner and hugs his knees tighter and tries to convince himself it’s a good thing the others are not here.

* * *

The alarm is loud and unnerving, and the red flashes make Simmons’ stomach twist.

Surely, this cannot be caused by a simple browser update. It can’t cause the ship to crash.

But the ship is, apparently, crashing with the alarm sending the staff into a panic. Everything seems to be tilted as well. A mug falls over and rolls off a desk. Simmons makes sure not to step on the broken pieces as he runs down the hallway.

Everything seems to be in a frenzy, with UNSC personnel running back and forth while shouting orders Simmons does not quite understand. He forces himself to ignore them, continues to stumble down the hall, and when he rounds the corner he finds what he is searching for.

Grif is trying to get a proper footing and when he looks up he sees Simmons. He might have been trying to say something but then the entire ship seems to shake. Simmons is sent flying forward, slamming into Grif who lets out a loud _Oomph_ when an armored elbow is forced into his stomach area, and then they both hit the wall.

There are screams in the distance, the panic is thick in the air, but Simmons finds the time to latch onto Grif, tightening his grip, before they are sent sliding down the hallway.

Grif breathes out “Holy fuck!” into Simmons’ neck, and he wants to say something in return but all he can do is hold on until the back of his head hits the metal wall and everything goes black.

* * *

Grif looks annoyingly cool with his Grifshot. Grif is not supposed to look that cool, that hardcore, like a _real_ soldier. Of course they have been actual soldiers for a while now, at least after being promoted on Chorus, but they have been dodging bullets from other than Blue Team way before that.

It was easier back in Blood Gulch where the only real threat had been Caboose’ teamkilling (the Blues obviously suck), but then Donut’s long history of dying-but-not-really had begun, and there had been Freelancers and AIs and crazy soldiers and insane mercenaries that all proved to be fucking _real_ threats.

And now they are waiting for the door to break down and the room to be swarmed with enemies. And for some reason Simmons’ hands are not shaking.

Maybe it is because he knows what they are fighting for, or because they have been through so much already, or maybe it is because the others seem so confident, or maybe his cyborg limbs have just locked in place.

Grif turns his head to stare at Simmons.

For a moment they just keep eye-contact through the visor before Simmons swallows and nods as well.

Then they both glance at the door, waiting.

Simmons breathes in deeply and tightens his grip on his weapons.

However grim the situation may feel there is this strange acceptance in the room, filling the air. A sense of stubbornness and one shared thought that Simmons repeat mentally as the door falls.

_Bring it on_.

* * *

Grif’s body is warm. Simmons can’t complain since he is sweating as well. They’re both hot and sweaty and their skin is sticky, and something has kept Simmons from realizing how gross he finds all of this. But now his mind if slowly working again.

It is like waking up from a dream, quite literally. One of those dreams Simmons would never tell anybody about _ever_.

“Oh my god,” he says slowly because he is naked and Grif is naked and they are both _naked_.

The stuffed air inside the small locker feels warm as well.

Grif shifts, body pressed against Simmons’, and blinks slowly, as if waking up. His head is against Simmons’ chest and he seems to wake up completely when he notices the fast heartbeat.

Simmons’ cyborg heart is malfunctioning, too many beats a second, stumbling over itself. Simmons can’t breathe and he knows it is not just because of claustrophobia. He tries to gulp but his throat feels too dry. His stupid heart is not working right, and his body is too hot, and his mind can’t accept that _this_ , for some reason, has happened.

When Grif finally becomes aware of his surroundings, of what has happened, he raises his head to promise quickly, “We don’t have to talk about this.”

Simmons nods but is not quite aware if it can be seen in the darkened room. Grif gets off Simmons and moves so they are both resting against the wall. His arm is touching Simmons’, the one that is still flesh so he can feel it.

Even if Simmons wants to speak he cannot quite find the words. But Grif is breathing slowly next to him – and loudly, so that Simmons cannot help but fall into the same steady rhythm. It helps clear his mind. A little. Grif has always known how to stop him from having a panic attack.

He reaches out to try to find their clothes and accidently brushes against Grif’s hand in the process.  The touch lingers for some seconds before they both pull away.

Simmons’ cyborg heart continues to beat with a steady pace.

**Author's Note:**

>  _IMPORTANT_  
>  The RvB angst war begins Friday so in case you guys have any good angst prompts feel _very_ free to send them to me on tumblr. I also have an exam that week, so I apologize but my wips will first be updated when all of this is done. I hope my upcoming one-shots can entertain meanwhile.
> 
> This was made for Red Team week, which I actually have been trying to produce something for but I’ve been struggling with writer’s block. So I found this half-finished one-shot and decided to complete it in honor of Simmons.
> 
> Hope you enjoyed!


End file.
